by Thomas Perry
There just wasn’t any way to know whether their plan was rational, let alone comprehensible. He supposed nothing intended to end in a suicidal battle was rational. The whole suicide dimension put him at a terrible disadvantage in dealing with them. In any confrontation, he was the one who would be bluffing. They would be the ones prepared to push their point of view to the extreme of death: you must do as I say or I will kill you even though it kills me too.
It bothered him that they had a kind of sincerity he didn’t. A man who was planning to die for a cause might be crazy or deluded, but he wasn’t cowardly or selfish. The bomb maker acknowledged himself to be both.
No matter how useful he was to them, how good he was at the job he had undertaken, he was not their brave and noble comrade in arms. He was a mercenary, a person whose loyalty must be bought on a continuing basis. And in this case they also saw him as a traitor to his country. That undoubtedly made him even less deserving of respect. They ordered him around without much regard for his dignity. There was even a danger that they might kill him because they thought he was contemptible.
He began to consider various ways of getting out of California, which he would have to do whether things went badly or they went well. He could buy airline tickets for flights leaving each day from the four major airports—Los Angeles International, Ontario, Long Beach, and Burbank. He supposed the safest way would be to reserve one flight from each airport each day. The flights didn’t have to be long, so he could cut the cost by picking cheap flights—say, a hundred dollars. That would bring it down. If he had a ticket for one cheap flight at one airport every day, it would be $36,500 a year. If he booked all four of them for three months it would be the same price, $36,500. There might be some sort of open-ended ticket he could keep renewing for even less, or something else that was less likely to be noticed by the authorities. He decided to work out a travel plan and implement it. He would also look into the idea of having flights from airports farther away from Los Angeles, in case he needed an airport after an attack, when local ones were likely to be shut down. He would also have to think about hidden cars and other ways to get to an airport.
Maybe his house was his call to a bluff, as it always had been. He was comfortable spending most hours of every day inside this enormous bomb. Think you’re tough? You’re a pure-souled fearless fanatic who smiles as he provokes death? Come stand beside me while I work in this munitions dump.
He kept at it all day and into the evening, making the substances he would need. When he finally gave himself permission to rest, he meticulously cleaned, locked up, and showered, then put on clean clothes before he washed the ones that might have specks of volatile substances on them. When he played back the evening news, he was shocked.
The news anchor said, “A source close to the mayor’s office said today that a preliminary investigation had begun in the murder of Channel Ten’s Gloria Hedlund. The source confirmed that one person of interest is former police captain Richard Stahl, the subject of Miss Hedlund’s final on-air exposé.”
36
The next day the bomb maker watched the television news while he ate his lunch, and he could see that the story had begun to grow and flower since last night. Matt Jeffrey was interviewing a retired prosecutor named Etsky on Channel Twelve. Jeffrey said, “Why are the police investigating Richard Stahl for the murder of Gloria Hedlund?”
“I hadn’t heard it referred to that way. In a murder of a high-profile public figure, the police have many leads, and many possibilities. They plunge into the investigation and try to eliminate as many people as they can right away. The last I heard, Mr. Stahl was a person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Aren’t those just two stages in one process?”
“Sort of,” said Etsky. “Generally, there are many persons of interest, but only one becomes a suspect. Even then, a suspect is innocent until proven guilty. We’re far from a trial, and the police haven’t released any information they’ve found pertaining to him.”
“We do know some things. He’s a man who hadn’t been on the police force for eight years, but who was appointed to take over the Bomb Squad after the mass murder of half the squad. The chief jumped over the heads of fourteen serving Bomb Squad members to make him their boss. Stahl immediately proceeded to defuse at least four very large and complicated bombs, almost single-handedly.”
Etsky said, “Yes, I can see what you’re wondering about. It’s not unheard of that a public official might come in and save the day in an emergency, and then turn out to be the one who caused it. There have been fire officials who set fires, either to expand their reputations or to create a need for their services. And, of course, there have been police officers who committed crimes and pretended to solve them.”
“I’m just thinking, who would know better how to defuse a sophisticated bomb than the man who built it? Just wondering if you’ve heard anything from the police about that.”
“No.”
“And there is the fact that on the very day Richard Stahl was forced to resign by Gloria Hedlund’s reporting, Gloria was killed with a bomb.”
“That could be a coincidence,” Etsky said. “These bombs have been planted all over the city for about two months—long before she reported on Stahl.”
“But loss of a reputation is enough to make a man want revenge. It does provide a motive, doesn’t it?”
“Some people would say that. But a motive is a subjective thing. For some people, thinking someone is staring at them is a motive for murder. For others it takes much, much more.”
“But not everybody has the makings of a bomb on hand. It’s a very small percentage of the population. Because of all of the bombs that have been defused, wouldn’t the squad have access to lots of explosives kept for evidence?”
“Now we’re straying far beyond my field of expertise. I’ve never prosecuted a bombing case, but I’m not sure they keep explosives for evidence after they’ve identified them. They do keep some explosives of their own for detonating suspicious devices.”
“I’m just pointing out that he had the motive. He had the means. And the explosion occurred after one a.m. Mr. Stahl had finished his final day of duty on the police force six hours earlier. Six hours. That’s the opportunity.”
The television screen filled with a shot of the interior of the studio, and the new anchorwoman said, “Thanks to Matt Jeffrey and former prosecutor Etsky for that interview. We’ll be back in a moment with more news.”
The bomb maker switched channels to see what the other local stations were covering at noon. Channel Ten was running interminable coverage of the death of its reporter, Gloria Hedlund. It kept showing the shot taken by the surveillance cameras on the studio roof. He could see the flash and the nearby cars bounce once from the detonation, and then the Ferrari spinning into the air and falling in flames. He was pleased to see that the anchors didn’t show the tow truck, which had left forty minutes earlier. They didn’t seem to have made the connection.
After that they showed a report giving a biography of Gloria Hedlund, with pictures from early beauty contests across the South and a much younger Gloria looking like a blond goddess in front of groups of shorter, darker, and nearly identical contestants. Then there was a succession of shots from television stations in Charlotte and other cities, all the way up to shots from Los Angeles, taken twenty-five years later.
The bomb maker set the schedule control to make sure the local news was recorded beginning at five o’clock, and then turned off the TV. He had work to do this afternoon.
He had learned that in addition to killing the woman reporter, his bomb had succeeded in neutralizing the best bomb expert, the commander of the only opposing force that mattered to him, and making him a suspect. It was time to press his advantage. He had been working on some devices, and now it was time to finish them and put them into the field.
The surprising developments surrounding Dick Stahl had changed everything. The bomb maker had killed Glo
ria Hedlund only because he wanted to keep up the atmosphere of panic, and for that he needed to kill someone known to the public. He had chosen her only because there was something about her he hadn’t liked. But now Stahl was out for good.
Stahl had been the man he feared most. Stahl had ruined his car bomb at the gas station, rendered his elevator bomb a waste of effort, and correctly read the bomb he’d planted in the school cafeteria. Stahl had nearly rebuilt the Bomb Squad to full strength faster than the bomb maker could destroy them.
The bomb maker examined his work, selected the devices he felt were ready, and went to his car. He opened the trunk and placed the metal toolbox inside it. The box had a lining of bubble wrap, then a layer of Styrofoam bits, and then a four-inch layer of foam rubber. There was a second four-inch layer with four oblong holes cut into it so he could set a device in each one without it moving or bumping another. On top of that was a plain metal tray, which held a few light tools, rolls of wire, tape, and boxes of screws. They made the box look harmless, but they were all things he might need. The springs and shock absorbers of the car kept the ride sufficiently smooth to give him some confidence.
Driving around with a load of explosives in his trunk introduced a few unavoidable risks. He could be hit by a drunken driver in another car. He could drive into a sinkhole so deep it would jar even his padded box enough to set off a charge. He could have a taillight burn out and get pulled over by a cop who then got suspicious.
The Los Angeles police had automatic license plate readers mounted on patrol cars. The main purpose was to spot cars that had been reported stolen or had outstanding warrants. But there was a computerized record of every plate scanned. He was sure that by now, the homicide detectives would be looking at the numbers scanned near the times and places of his bombings. If two or three of them matched his car’s plate, they might take him in.
Tonight he was driving the sedan because he hadn’t used it in any of the bombings. He parked on a side street near the subway station in North Hollywood. He sat for a few minutes while he put on his black makeup, then he put on his knit cap and clear glasses. His clothes were baggy so they would hide the devices he was going to hold close to his chest beneath them. He went to his trunk, took out the pair of bombs, hugged them under his coat, and walked to the escalator. He rode it down to the first floor of the subway station, bought a tap card by putting cash into the machine, and went to the next escalator. He rode it down to the platform level and waited. He saw the train on the southbound track arrive, let off a few passengers, then rattle away. He set his watch’s timer, walked to the space behind the elevator shaft at the end of the platform, lowered himself down to the tracks below, and began to trot.
The third rail was easy to avoid. It was on the farther, inner side of the train bed. He knew he had ten minutes before the next train would come. He ran steadily for a hundred yards and then climbed up onto the walkway in the dimly lighted tube and ran more easily and faster.
When he reached a spot where a switch track was installed to shift a train onto another branch of the tunnel, he placed the first bomb. It had a detonator that would be set off by shock, a main charge of Semtex, and a timer that would set off a smaller backup charge if twenty minutes went by, so at least the tracks would be torn up.
He climbed back up to the maintenance walkway and resumed his run. When he was about a quarter mile farther down the track, he set the second bomb down on the walkway, where it would be seen.
Now that he had no burden, he ran harder. He reached the Universal City station, pulled himself up onto the platform, rode the escalator to the floor above, and then went up the second escalator to the street. He walked back almost to the first station and then to his car. He drove off.
The bomb maker knew exactly where his second spot would be, and he drove right to it. The second spot had a number of features he liked. It was public, but it wasn’t infested with a thousand witnesses and a hundred security cameras. Even in the dark he could see that in the daytime it would be pleasant and verdant, and it had bare dirt.
Griffith Park’s buildings, he was sure, would all have security cameras. But the bomb maker intended to stay far from buildings. Unless he was very unlucky, there would be no police cars with license readers or anything else.
Fern Dell was a wooded garden within the park. He entered Western Canyon Road at Los Feliz, then drove until he reached the picnic area. He parked as far as he could from the road and searched for the exact place.
He went to the trunk of his car and took out the posthole digger he had brought. He worked quickly and dug nine holes, each about the size of a large tomato can. He brought one to the spot to be sure it matched. When he had the nine holes, he went back to the car to begin moving components. He slipped them into the eight holes and connected the holes with insulated wire, then connected each of the holes to the main device.
When he was finished, he buried the wires, covered the holes with their plastic tops, carefully smoothed dirt evenly over all of them, and took his tools and wire back to his car. He drove all the way home while it was still dark, trying to beat the traffic that would begin to clog the freeways at dawn. It was a two-hour drive even late at night.
He made it home, exhausted, at about 6:15 a.m. He parked the car in the empty bay at the side of his garage and went to bed. As he lay there he wished he could see his work when it was set off, but he knew that was out of the question. If the device didn’t kill everyone close enough to see it, then it didn’t work.
37
“It bothers me. I’ll admit it,” Stahl said. “I don’t want people to think I would rig a newswoman’s car to blow up. But I don’t know what to do about it except wait. Either we’ll catch the real bomber, or the normal workings of Homicide Special will make it clear to everybody we couldn’t have done it.”
“They already have enough evidence to prove that now,” said Diane. “I don’t think everybody’s convinced. But I guess that’s the least important worry we have.”
Stahl drove with Diane to the office of his security company on Sepulveda Boulevard. They parked in the outdoor lot and walked around to the front of the office building. She looked at the red brick, the strange glassed-in set of exterior steps, and up ahead at the row of office doors along the balcony above. “Wow,” she said. “That is one ugly building.”
“It’s cheap. And the office is upstairs beyond the balcony where you can’t see it from outside.”
“If you ever call and say you’re staying late at the office, I’ll know you’re lying. Nobody could stand to.”
“It’s not as bad inside.”
“I’m sure. How could it be?”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to get into the security business. I haven’t spent time on it in months, and I could use the help.”
“I’ll consider it, if the money is right. But only until the police take me back.”
They took the elevator beside the top of the concrete steps, got out at the third floor, walked past the long row of offices, and then stopped at a door that faced away from the balcony.
She looked at the door. It read: NO-FAIL SECURITY in corroded brass letters. “How do you ever get customers?”
“It’s sort of a word-of-mouth business. If people need my kind of help, they ask around.”
He opened the door and they entered the waiting room. Diane saw that the receptionist, a pretty black woman about thirty years old, was behind a wall of bulletproof glass. Stahl waved his hand at her, and she reached for a button. There was a buzz and Diane heard the sound of a bolt retracting in the steel door.
They went through the interior door, where another woman about forty-five with long blond hair sat at a desk in a large office. She looked up and saw him. “Dick,” she said.
“Hi, Valerie. This is Diane.” He turned to Diane. “Valerie runs the business.”
“The money part, not the part that matters,” Valerie said. “I’m a certified public accountant. Plea
sed to meet you.”
Valerie glanced at the receptionist. “And this is Clarissa, who does everything else.”
Diane stepped to the receptionist and held out her hand. “Diane.”
The receptionist smiled. “It’s a pleasure. But I’m surprised to see you two here this morning.”
“Why?” said Diane. “He said you were expecting us.”
“That bomb business in the subway. I really thought they’d call you in.”
Stahl had his phone out, looking at the screen. “Nothing. Don’t tell me they’re that stupid.” He dialed a number, then said, “This is Dick Stahl. Is Deputy Chief Ogden available?” He listened for a moment. “I see. Can you tell me where it is? Thank you.”
He turned to the others. “Somebody set off a bomb on the tracks in the Red Line subway in North Hollywood and it caused a wreck.” He looked at his phone for a few more seconds. “I’d better get over there. Are you up to coming with me?”
“If I wait here you’ll get there faster,” Diane said. “And I don’t want to be part of the news story.”
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
As the casualties of the subway crash were brought to the surface by elevator and escalator, they were loaded into ambulances and driven north on Lankershim Boulevard toward Valley Presbyterian, east to Providence Saint Joseph in Burbank, or south toward UCLA. The rescue was rapid. One moment there were thirty ambulances lined up along the curb near the station, and ten minutes later there were none. The police and sheriff’s deputies kept the traffic moving across the nearby intersections, and kept a lane free for emergency vehicles.
In the sky a swarm of helicopters circled, the throbbing rotors and growling engines making it hard for the rescuers to hear a human voice. The cops and EMTs had to rely on practiced procedure and hand signals to get the patients away.